


The Acrimony of Rain

by Binario



Series: One-shots to mend (or break) the heart [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, In this House we Love and Support the Faerghus Idiot Four, POV Alternating, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sylvain is the Mom Friend, Tea as a Literary Resource, Tragedy of Duscur (Fire Emblem), and you can FIGHT ME ON THIS, no beta we die like Glenn, sorry glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binario/pseuds/Binario
Summary: A Tragedy in four acts.(or, the snapping of bonds in that calamitous day, and the wounds that scarred)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: One-shots to mend (or break) the heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847344
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	The Acrimony of Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I really should be focusing on my other fics but my muse went _ahaha character study goes brrrbrr_ and here we are.
> 
> I love my damaged children; they deserve to soothe their pain. Not quite what I ended up doing with this fic but hey, if it hurts it works, right?
> 
> I apologize in advance for any weird sentence structure/spelling mistake that might pop up. I'm hunting them down but I always seem to miss some.
> 
> (You want the full experience? Read while playing Unfulfilled on repeat. It hits differently.)

**Act One**

Sylvain was told at dusk.

Life in the Gautier Estate had always been an isolated sort of upbringing. The house was a gilded mirage for those of noble blood – the luxurious rooms with their exquisite wood carvings and the lavish carpets. It was a glorious beast, like everything the Margrave owned. Not one ounce of imperfection – from anyone who had the curse of the Lord’s attention – was allowed within its halls. The warm reds and golds of the Estate spoke of warmth, of strength, of the intrinsic sense of purity that was preserved like a treasure amongst Faerghan aristocracy, clutched tightly like a sword to keep back the encroaching ideals of the neighboring lands. The Margrave ran an exemplary House, a beacon of the spirit of true nobility.

Everything that Gautier was not.

_It runs in the blood_ , the house staff would trade in hushed whispers lost to the night. _A Gautier has frost running through their veins._

Gautier was a gate to damnation. This, Sylvain knew. The flashing colors of the Estate could do nothing to keep out the frozen hellscape that was its true nature. A monster dressed in silver armor. Pride, humility, heroism – empty words shielding the grotesque lifestyles of the highborn nobles. They talked of duty when they discarded their soldiers like playthings, of tradition when the right to live was taken from their children as soon as a bloodline presented itself on the flaring of a crest, of _loyalty_ when they wore paper masks around their supposed allies, a rotting greed behind their charades of meekness.

From a very young age, he understood the latent darkness hiding behind a pleasant smile. He learned to smooth out pain with a mask of his own, perfected the art of adapting to the performance that was expected of him. His life was not his own, and it would never be until the day he drew his last breath. His last name was a shackle, a noose wrapped around his neck patiently waiting for the day he misses a step. He was born in privilege in a gilded cage, and that meant he had worth only when he sang in the measured cadence of his father’s whims. His brother made sure the lessons imprinted on him, one way or the other.

He spent most of his days drowning in training sessions and lectures. He had little love for the academics that came so easy to him, but he was less likely to be intercepted by his brother if he was parroting verses for his tutors. The Margrave’s prevalent disappointment seemed to tame down the more effort his youngest dedicated to his education. The brief moments of freedom that visiting his friends represented were easier to coax out of his father if he behaved like the faultless heir the Margrave wanted him to be. The balance he fought so hard to achieve was one of the few truly joyous accomplishments in his cursed life.

He was out riding when the letter came, and it was dusk when his freedom was set ablaze.

The house seemed colder than ever, that day. Gautier was perennially freezing at best, but the halls were unusually quiet and subdued as Sylvain walked to his father’s study. The staff had already lit the chandeliers in preparation for yet another stormy night. The harsh winds and the promise of a snowfall had cut his riding lessons short. His faithful mare had whinnied in displeasure when Sylvain had forced her back to the stables, but he rather she hated him than exposing her to unforgiving weather. He had been removing her saddle when the head of staff quietly told him that the Margrave had requested his presence. His tone had given Sylvain a sudden feeling of dread. The head of staff, a tall man with a severe light in his eyes, had always had nothing but contempt for Sylvain. He was his father’s right hand – something that Sylvain eventually understood after countless escapades reached his father’s ears – and as such, he held a profound sense of loyalty towards the Margrave. And yet here he was, looking at the child he so despised with something close to pity in his gaze. The softening of his features was downright uncanny, fundamentally bizarre in his aging face.

He carried his unease openly until he reached the dark pinewood doors. He used the seconds it took to knock on the gleaming wood to piece together his noble mask and tuck his heart behind marble walls. The Margrave allowed him in with the same imposing voice he always used.

“Father,” he greeted evenly with a slight bow at the waist. He rose again and stood stiffly until he was to be acknowledged.

Margrave Gautier sat behind a table with letters piled high on its surface. He was pressing his noble seal to the black wax of a recently written letter. Black wax with the official signature of the Gautier crest. A letter that Sylvain knew had to contain a message of extreme urgency that would be immediately sent out with the Estate’s fastest massager. 

The Margrave examined the wax seal and rang the service bell. Immediately, a servant came in and bowed deeply to the head of the house, ignoring Sylvain standing quietly in the middle of the study. Margrave Gautier offered the letter unenthusiastically to the servant, and she quickly grabbed it and left without a backwards glance.

His father looked down to the next letter, opening it and skimming the contents written in black ink. With his free hand, he pointed to the empty guest chair in a silent command.

Sylvain knew better than to hurry his father, so he complied instantly and sat down. He mentally went through all the things he had done recently, trying to find in them any spark of unbecomingness that could merit a summons to the study, the room that was so sacred to his father that even Miklan hesitated to wander close to. Nothing came to mind – he had strived to surpass the Margrave’s expectations in anticipation of the Garland Moon festival. Ingrid had promised to host them this year, and thus he had to earn the right to formally request the trip to Galatea in the coming month. Dimitri and Felix had enthusiastically confirmed their attendance and would frequently write to Sylvain to ask if he had managed to convince his father. He had written back carefully worded letters to ask for their patience, lest the chief of staff intercept his letters and reported alleged rebelliousness before he could present his case.

After three more letters were replied to, the Margrave deigned to acknowledge Sylvain. He rose from his seat and wrinkled out his vest, and Sylvain took it as a cue to stand up too. His father looked at him critically, taking in the smudged trousers and the mud-speckled shirtsleeves with rising vexation. He gave his son a familiar look of disappointment, as if he had done him a great offense, and grabbed a letter whose wax seal was already opened. Margrave Gautier offered him the letter, but as he made to grab it his father moved it out of his reach again.

“I trust–” he said with a glare “–that you have not forgotten the basics of etiquette. You _will_ dress yourself appropriately when we depart in the morning. I expect you will be a proper noble by then, not a lowborn kitchen boy.”

Sylvain bit his tongue and bowed to hide his wavering smile. His father gave a low hum and handed him the letter in clear dismissal.

He did not look down at the letter in his hands until he had clicked shut the door to his father’s study but when he did, he wished he had forced his mare out into the snow and gotten lost in the woods. The unmistakable crest of Blaiddyd stood glaringly obvious in the black wax stamp, sealed down with such force that it had created a bulging ring of black around the sharp angles of the emblem. Sylvain felt the dread return at full force as he opened the official parchment and saw the signature of the Chamberlain in artful strokes. This made no sense. He knew that the royal family were out on a diplomatic mission, why would an official missive come from Fhirdiad without any of their Majesties present?

He started to read, and the shadows of the hall lengthened to snatch away pieces of his cracked mask. The air was charged and smelled heavily of ozone, the warning trumpets of a coming storm.

_To the Esteemed Lords of House Gautier,_

_The Royal Chamberlain of the Crown of Lions sends his deepest apologies for the shortness of this summons. This is, indeed, a devastating day for his Majesty’s devoted servants. It is with a heavy heart that I regret to inform you of the passing of His Majesty King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd, may the Goddess welcome him in her immortal halls, and Queen Consort Patricia Gioconda Blaiddyd, may she find rest in the heavens. The memory of their holy linage will live on in the selfless sacrifice of his Majesty’s Royal Knights, who perished to protect the life of our beloved Crown Prince–_

He crumpled the letter with trembling hands. The wind outside howled.

**Act Two**

Ingrid hated carriages.

There was nothing fundamentally wrong with a carriage. She had no palpable reasons to hate a comfortable means of transportation when most peasants barely had access to donkeys to travel long distances. Her mother would always look at her sharply whenever she manifested reluctance to get inside the contraption. Ingrid had once dared to suggest horseback riding as an alternate method of transportation, and the scolding she had received had been one for the history books. She was a _noble lady of outstanding reputation_ ; no noble lady would arrive with the hem of her dress matted in mud and smelling of sweaty animal.

Ingrid had stopped complaining after that, but there was no love lost between herself and carriages.

Dimitri had asked, once, back when they were younger than they are now.

He had seen the way she stared at the things when her family visited Fhirdiad. Dimitri, gentle soul that he was, had politely excused them from the presence of their parents. He had found them a quiet study and pushed a steaming cup of tea in her hands.

“I’m going to sound so stupid,” she mumbled. The steam rising from her cup had swirled with the puffs of her breath.

Dimitri paused. There was a click of porcelain as he rested the cup back on the table, doing the same with her cup so he could grab her hands, gently pulling on them until she conceded to stare at his earnest eyes.

“I won’t judge you.”

Ingrid took a deep breath to contain her inner reluctance. “My father only brings out the carriages when there’s another suitor waiting to meet me. He won’t let me out of the house if I am not dressed in silk and polished like a mirror until–” she forced any improper bitterness out of her voice “– until the ‘ _resplendence of Galatea shines in the lovely Lady that I raised._ ”

Dimitri hadn’t said anything, only hugged her close when the silent tears started to fall.

That had been more than enough for her, his presence. Knowing that, whatever happened, he was there without a mask, accepting her tears as something with value, with weight. That there was no need for hollow smiles and mannerisms refined into an act. She had cried less after that, and then rarely after her engagement gave her a new road to freedom.

She’s not so sure if her presence will be of any use now.

Fhirdiad was always a place of wonders for their little group. It was difficult not to be awed by the elegant beauty of the city. They had raced each other through these very streets (whenever Sylvain managed to sneak them out) and danced uncoordinated, childish waltzes come Garland Moon. They knew every baker by name, every single one of the kinder Knights that shadowed them instead of dragging them back to their parents. The twisting streets leading to the grander plazas were as familiar to them as their own rooms back in the castle.

Ingrid saw none of that joy today. The streets were mostly deserted, the stores closed down and their goods hidden from view. There was no smell of fresh bread wafting down the street, no giggling maidens trying to catch a glimpse of a visiting noble. The plazas looked cold and lifeless, a pervading sense of wrongness that tightened the knot in her throat. She dug her fingers in the plush cushion of her seat until her nails tinged painfully, and then some. The mourning dress that she had been forced into was making it so very difficult to breathe at the par of keeping a breakdown from destroying her poised veneer. She had yet to shed tears, had only adopted a shakiness in her voice after her mother read her the letter, but she had no doubt that it wouldn’t be long until she truly lost it.

The carriage came to a stop before Fhirdiad castle. Her mother had to take her hand and pull lightly to get her to step out.

She sucked in a shaky breath when she saw the black veil covering the Royal Lions. It was tradition, the voice of her history tutor surged like a muffled memory, to mourn a king by covering the sacred animal of the crown. The significance of the Royal Lions was often lost on them, however, when they challenged each other to climb them while the staff fretted to get them down. It was a dagger to the heart to search for the distinctive statues at the gates and see their outline from underneath the pools of velvet.

They were let inside by a steward, but her mother had to consistently tug on her hand when she could only turn back to stare in muted horror at the gates.

Countess Galatea sat her down in their guest room with a murmured apology and a promise to send a maid with tea. Ingrid didn’t answer, staring vacantly at the window showing the vast garden. Her mother kissed her forehead tenderly and promised to finish quickly.

She did not know how long she spent staring out into the garden. The maid came with the aforementioned tea and offered it to her. When Ingrid still didn’t react, the servant smiled sadly at her and left the tray in reach should she feel like drinking it later. The sun rose to its highest point, bathing the garden in golden light, when she heard the clicking of the door opening. There was the sound of approaching footsteps, a dip on the bed, and long arms snaked around her to grab her in a shaking embrace. She curled her arms around his neck and pressed her first tears into fiery red hair.

“We’re here,” Sylvain murmured like a prayer, lost against the crown of her head.

\---

She does not remember much of the funeral.

It was a grand thing, if still somber and devastating. All of the noble houses from Fhaergan aristocracy attended, a parade of dark fabrics painted with the flaming colors of the setting sun. They followed the funeral procession to the royal mausoleum and kneeled before the entrance in a parting salute to the fallen monarchs. They waited their vigil in silence as the cloudy skies darkened with the kiss of night. The wind kicked up, sending light mists of rain to cover up the faint stars.

Ingrid clung tightly to Sylvain’s hand, her nails leaving crescent marks against pale skin. He did not ask her to stop, only squeezed her hand tighter. She should be kneeling along with her father to honor the symbolic vigil. She had tried to comply with the Count before they joined the procession but found that she couldn’t stop trembling if parted from her friend. Her father had looked ready to start scolding her when her mother had taken pity on her and vouched for allowing their daughter to stay with the Gautier heir. Count Galatea hadn’t looked pleased with the outcome, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment. 

They rose as one when the last ray of sunlight dipped beyond the horizon and their breaths puffed in small clouds of steam. The other nobles started to head back to the castle, filling the quiet night with mournful whispers. Ingrid averted her gaze when she saw how much of their grief was for showmanship.

Sylvain traded their clasped hands for throwing an arm around her shoulders and hugging her close, propriety be damned. “Do you want to head back?” 

Ingrid looked at the castle in the distance with tired eyes. “I don’t think I can see the Lions again without crying.”

He squeezed her shoulder and started leading them out of the burial grounds. They passed plenty of minor nobility arranging their plans for the return trip to their lands. Only the higher nobles were invited to stay at the castle, something that made her both guilty at being more privileged in this situation and relieved that she didn’t need to face strangers when she felt this terrible.

“Ingy.”

Ingrid was torn out of her thoughts when they stopped. She looked questioningly at Sylvain, but the boy was gazing intently at the sea of people that were parting in the middle to let through–

Ah.

He didn’t look like she expected him to. Not at all like when he had unintentionally broken her arm with a badly timed activation from his crest. He had looked so terribly remorseful and desolate that, despite the sharp pain of the fracture, she had tried to comfort him. It had only made him cry disconsolately, which in turn made _her_ cry and not achieve much on the way of getting immediate help for her injury.

He did not have that sadness in his eyes, nor were there tears getting lost in his golden hair. He walked with his eyes set forward impassively like a soldier going through familiar drills. There was nothing, no anger, no fear. Nothing of the boy who would hold her close and still get mighty embarrassed by the action. Just a chilling blankness as he went through the motions and nodded at the bowing nobles in his path.

Dimitri looked dead.

Ingrid felt the urgent need to run at him and shake him, scream at him, do anything until his tears could come out and she could guard him in his grief. She almost did, felt Sylvain jolt as if preparing to do the same, but they held themselves back. Her father had constantly repeated to her that they would allow no one near the Crown Prince, not even them, until the whole incident was investigated. Ingrid had protested, raged against the idea of abandoning her friend when he _needed_ her, but her father had given her a look that promised consequences should she disobey. She did not doubt that the Margrave had done something quite similar with his sons.

The hand of her shoulder tightened to something painful, and she squirmed under his grip. Sylvain relaxed his hand with an apologetic glance but watched Dimitri go with a something darkening his brown eyes. “Why is he here?”

Ingrid furrowed her brows, looked again. Leading the Crown Prince away with a hand between his shoulder blades was Duke Fraldarius. It made sense, traditionally, for the Duke to be there. The Shield of Faerghus had an oath to watch over the royal bloodline that dated back to the first monarchy of the Kingdom. Lord Rodrigue was a close confidant of King Lambert, thus looking after the young prince was more than his duty: it was a last act of love for a fallen friend.

But this was not about tradition. Not when the Duke had a much personal stake in this whole horrible incident, not when the dead included–

“Where is Felix?” Her voice came out as a croak. She could not allow herself to get lost down that train of thought or she would not return from that particular abyss.

She felt Sylvain shiver, and the darkness in his eyes flared with a hatred she had never seen in her friend. His voice came out flatly and quaking, as if he was holding himself back from screaming his rage to the world. “Miklan crowed about seeing Duke Fraldarius alone. I thought it was him being an asshole like always but–”

“He wouldn’t leave him alone in the Estate, would he?” She hated how unsure her voice sounded. Sylvain said nothing, only pursed his lips into a thin line. They allowed her words to fade into the night as they watched Dimitri disappear in the distance.

**Act Three**

Three days and three nights he had stayed curled up in _his_ bed, unmoving. Three days and three nights of servants unsuccessfully trying to make him eat, sleep, go outside and breathe in fresh air. Three days and three nights of him, alone, with the quiet echo of footsteps as the staff tried fruitlessly to bring life back into their young master. He would not move, only curling tighter amongst the blankets when the urge to cry became overwhelming, taking in the rapidly disappearing, comforting smell that still clung to the fabric like a memento.

He was still in Glenn’s room when his father came back. 

He heard the click of the door and his quiet sigh. The scrape of boots crossed the room hesitantly, as if approaching one of the young foals that their mares had birthed during Harpstring Moon. A silly notion, he was no horse. His little family had but a single brief experience with grief. He had been too young to understand at the time the significance of black and funerals. He did not have memories of her aside from a gentle caress, the impression of a small smile. He can distinctly remember that it had not been his father who had crushed him into a trembling embrace that day. Felix had not been the one in need for comforting, but his child’s mind had taken in the pain coming from _him_ like a tide, and he had bawled disconsolately. It had been the first time that he had needed someone to help reel in his blaring emotions, and it had been the first time that he had looked up to pale blue eyes, shimmering with soul-deep agony, and had felt _seen_.

His father came to a stop next to the bed and fell silent.

“Felix, the funeral is tomorrow.”

He burrowed deeper into the folds.

A beat of silence. A second sigh.

“You have to at least eat something.”

No reaction.

He heard his father let out a third sigh, heavier than the first ones. His footsteps retreated and the door closed behind him. Not a glance behind, no quiet encouragement.

Felix pressed his hands against his eyes to catch his tears as they fell.

\---

He finally left the room when the housekeeper came to beg him to with a heartbreaking sob. She had always been kind to him, baking him plain pastries that did not offend his hatred towards sweets. She treated his skinned knees when he fell with warm hands and sang to him silly songs from her childhood. She had been there, always, unconditionally, as much a part of his family as his brother was.

Had been, used to be.

He felt hollow as she helped him brush out the tangles nestling in his hair. It had gotten quite long, she remarked, and asked him if he wished to cut it.

Felix thought of him, long braid coming undone after hours of sparring. He thought of rebellious hairs that tickled his nose when he picked him up to stop his crying. He thought of long hours under the sun, chasing each other after a snowstorm had blanketed the Fraldarius Estate with a river of white, catching lazy snowflakes amongst dark locks like a constellation in a clear sky.

He shook his head.

The housekeeper smiled, her expression fragile and delicate against her wrinkled face. She took out the white ribbon holding up her hair and used it to tie his own in a low ponytail.

She helped him get dressed in his mourning attire and he faintly wondered if this is what it felt like to go to war. If this hollowness would take over his soul as he donned his armor, if his hands would quit their trembling when he gripped a weapon between himself and his enemy. If this is what it felt like, like he was balancing in the edge of nothing, if this is what he was now.

The housekeeper grabbed his hand in hers and squeezed. “Be brave, young master.”

He would.

He tried. He stood still beside his father during the whole affair. He heard words with no meaning spill out of Rodrigue’s mouth. An endless sea of praise for his fallen Knight, may he rest knowing his sacrifice brought great honor to his name. The casket they lowered was empty save for a single rapier, the one Felix had brought with quivering hands to the funeral staff. They hadn’t wanted to take it ( _We have no body and he died a knight’s death; it’s tradition for it to go empty_ ) but they had seen something in his glassy amber eyes that had softened their arguments.

He said nothing during his father’s speech, and he said nothing to the mass of distant cousins and uncles that tried to talk to him. He had no words for any of them, none that would have real importance to him. They don’t seem to care for his reluctance as whispers of his presence spread around the main hall like fire.

_Ah, the young Fraldarius, how lost he looks._

_Ah, the poor thing. The mirror image of his brother, rest his soul._

_The new heir of the house, I seem to believe._

_Is he ready? Does he know how to lead?_

_Will he know what to do?_

_Will he know how to rule?_

_Is he anything like Glenn?_

_Is he like Glenn is he like Glenn is he like Glenn_

Rodrigue cornered him during a lapse in the infernal small talk of the reception. He guided him to the hallway, grabbed his shoulders in what Felix thought might be an attempt at comforting him.

It didn’t work.

“How are you holding up?” He asked softly.

Felix stared at him uncomprehendingly. He must have been staring for a long time, for Rodrigue’s face contorted into a frown. He grabbed Felix’s hand between his own and what is it with people grabbing him out of nowhere?

“Felix, if you don’t want to be here, it’s alright. You can go, I’ll take care of the guests.”

Felix felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes. He forced it away. “Did you care?” He asked instead, voice as faint as he felt.

At Rodrigue’s deepening frown, he hurried to add. “About him. About Glenn.”

He saw Rodrigue fight to not let his body tense up. It was faint, but it was there. It somehow made him feel even worse.

“Of course I care,” Rodrigue choked on his own words. Took a deep breath. “He was my son. He was your brother, of course I care.”

Felix felt a wave of fearlessness like he never had before. He felt it smooth out the agitation from his face, felt it in the sudden curl of the snarl pulling back his lips. “Then why did you never say his name. Not once, not since it happened. You address him as your _knight_ , as your _heir_ , but never by his name.”

Felix was standing in the wake of fundamental change. He was hanging by a tread, clawing at the rusting shield of his idyllic childhood. 

Duke Fraldarius let out a harsh exhale, as if bracing himself. “We can’t mourn him forever, Felix. I wish he didn’t have to die. I wish I could welcome him home tomorrow. There’s so much I wish, so much I hope for but at the end of the day, that’s just what it is. A wish. A dream that won’t come to happen. He died in glorious service like a true knight, and he should be remembered like that.”

It was not a change – it was freefall.

He felt himself explode. He did not like this anger, this rage. He felt scared by the feral scream that he hurled at his father. He wanted to go back, back, back to the moment before Glenn left with the Knights, beg him to stay behind, just this once, just for this mission. He did not want to cut himself off from his father, not like this, not over this, but this wrath was for Glenn, for his brother whom he loves.

For Glenn, for Glenn, for his memory, for his humanity, for his kind smiles late at night, for his clear laughter, for his bright blue eyes, for the Glenn that was so much more than just another knight, just another nameless casualty in the battlefield, just another noble that went and fell before his time.

For Glenn, for his beloved brother, his soul for him, his being for him. If it was to be him and only him remembering the true nature of his brother, then so be it.

Rodrigue jerked back, stunned. He stared down at his livid son, so young and with a tortured inferno in his eyes. “Forever? _Forever?_ It’s barely been a week and you’ve forgotten him! You don’t care, you never have. You say you wish for him to come back, but you only want the Knight, your perfect son.”

Rodrigue made to intervene but Felix screamed again, acidly and inimical, snatching his hand away from his reach. “Don’t talk to me like you are a father! Don’t talk to me like I matter to you, like any of us mattered to you! You are nothing to me, old man, just leave me out of this!”

He stormed off down the hall, raging through the Fraldarius Estate wherever his feet took him. It hurt more than he cared to admit when his father didn’t follow.

\---

The rain forced him back into the house. Garland Moon it may be, but the cold was still too much to bear. He entered through the staff doors, sending the servants into a frenzy when they saw his drenched clothes. A kitchen hand piled clean blankets on him until someone fetched the housekeeper. She took one glance at Felix, pitifully cold and empty, and had the maids prepare a bath for him. He allowed her ministrations without a word, and she stared sadly until she got him to drink a cup of pine needle tea.

He sat down on his rug with the empty cup and refused to move when she suggested he rest on the bed. The old woman gently grabbed the porcelain from his halfhearted grip and promised she would find something else to calm him down.

It didn’t take too long until he heard a low rapping on his door. He didn’t move from his spot.

“Fe?”

Felix’s head shot back towards the entrance. Sylvain poked his head in hesitantly, glancing back down the hallway before slipping inside the room, closing the door behind him. He shuffled on the spot, eyes fliting between Felix and the rug, Felix and the rug.

“We wanted to come see you, but our parents wouldn’t let us. Ingrid’s down in the main hall distracting them right now,” the redhead said. He worried his lip, a bad habit that he had tried unsuccessfully to grow out of. “The housekeeper smuggled me up.”

Felix turned to stare at the window again. He shuffled a bit, and that was enough of a cue for Sylvain to cross the distance and drop himself beside him.

They stayed in silence. Felix was very grateful for that. When he didn’t know what to say, he could trust Sylvain to pick up on his thoughts and adapt accordingly. He did not know when they got that close, when did he start counting Sylvain when he thought of his family, but he was so very relieved that it’s him here, sharing the small rug in his dormitory. The day still doesn’t seem real, the whole _week_ seems straight out of a nightmare. Glenn was unbeatable, larger than life. He was the model knight; he knew everything there was to know about the world. He taught Felix how to wield a sword and how to read the big tomes in the library. He taught him how to ride a horse and how to keep his emotions in check while he ruffled his hair affectionally and called him a crybaby. He completed their little group – him, Sylvain, Ingrid and Dimitri. Glenn was a confidant, someone who could carry his secrets close to his heart, who was there to give out a reproachful glare or a warm embrace, who was there when he was needed and a silent guardian when he was not.

Felix surprised himself when he was the first to break the uneasy silence. “How long have you been here for?”

He heard Sylvain shift slightly on the rug. He said nothing about the gloom in Felix’s tone. “Since your father returned, actually. The Margrave didn’t want me ‘ _lose in a grieving house where I could make a fool of myself in front of the wrong people’_ , so I mostly stayed in the guest wing.”

“So, you heard,” and his voice was dangerously meek and quiet. Sylvain hummed nonchalantly and knocked their knees together. “A lot of people talked today, Felix, you need to be more specific.”

And there were moments when Sylvain got like this. When he got difficult and defensive, like he was playing a game of chess in his mind. This Sylvain was the one he wasn’t fond of, the charade that he carried with anyone not from their little group, the persona he adopted to please and fit in. It made Felix’s frayed emotions boil with the implications of the act coming up right now.

“You know what I mean,” he spat through clenched teeth. “Don’t make me say it.”

Brown eyes glanced at him, contemplating. Felix did his best to convey with his glare how much he didn’t need this from Sylvain right now.

“Yes,” Sylvain conceded. “I heard you with your father.”

Felix drew his knees up to his chest and curled in on himself. He knew the weight of what he said, how heavily a declaration that had been, but he couldn’t go back on his word. He couldn’t go and take it back, wouldn’t want to do it if it were possible. This was his choice. The very first choice he made on his own.

He hoped it was the right one.

Sylvain pressed his hands down on the rug and leaned back. “If you need to cry you can just do it, you know? It’s not like I haven’t seen you cry before.”

Felix scowled. “I didn’t ask for you, you idiot. Why didn’t you just send Ingrid over?”

_Worthless_ hung in the air between them, derogatory, and Felix realized his mistake.

He heard the redhead take in a sharp intake of breath, could almost feel the flash of hurt that had surely darkened his face. Sylvain made to stand ( _he goes, he flees, you did this_ ) and it broke Felix’s tenuous control. He hurled himself towards his friend, vaguely registering the surprised yelp when they collided, and buried his face into his shoulder. He tangled his fists on Sylvain’s clothes and shuddered under the weight of the world.

“ _Don’t leave me!_ Please, don’t leave me! Not you too.”

Sylvain froze up for one, two, three seconds and Felix felt hot shame wash over him. He pushed away from the redhead but then Sylvain was wrapping his arms around him and leading him back into his embrace. His first tears gave way to desperate wailing and Sylvain just hugged him close. He just held him, warm and familiar, and it made his heart throb with pain.

“I won’t, Fe, I won’t.” He felt the boy rest his chin on his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

“Everyone’s leaving me! Everyone leaves and I just– I just– they don’t even see me anymore!” Felix didn’t even understand what he was forcing out in his choked voice. He just knew that he hurt too much, hated all the vacant pleasantries everyone seemed so fond of showering him with, hated that everyone saw him as a dumb child too young to understand what was happening, what they were turning his _brother’s_ death into, this macabre spectacle of meaningless praise to make all of them feel better with themselves, as if it wasn’t a life that had been lost, as if Glenn was just entertainment.

As if Glenn didn’t matter.

“I really won’t, Fe. All of the people down there are total morons.” Felix wanted to laugh bitterly but what came out was a strangled whine. “They don’t care about anything other than their own status. I will not leave you behind.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Well, why not? I promise I won’t leave you.”

“Glenn promised he would come back and he lied.”

He felt Sylvain freeze beneath him. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, maybe he should stop being so whinny, he definitely needs to apologize urgently, but he doesn’t really feel like letting go of Sylvain just yet and it’s not _fair_ that their lives are going to be changing so quickly. It’s not fair that his brother’s memory will haunt him for the rest of his life when anyone so much as looks at him, it’s not fair that his father would rather bury his son under pointless idealism rather than mourn him properly, it’s not fair that Dimitri is going through the same thing except much worse because he’s all alone in his big, empty castle with all the bittersweet memories of better times. Nothing’s fair with his life and Felix just wants to be a kid again, just for tonight. Leave behind future Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius, bearer of a major crest, only heir to the house of Fraldarius, Shield of Faerghus and just be himself, Felix, _Fe_. Just to weep and be held, just this once, just this one last time.

“Then I’ll vow it to you Fe,” said Sylvain with the quiet conviction of a hurting boy. “I will never leave you. I will never forget you. We stay together and we’ll die together, and then you’ll never be alone.”

“You promise?”

“On my life.”

Felix let his tears run free for hours with only the company of the rain battering loudly at his window and Sylvain’s steady pulse against his ear. He might have dozed off at some point but was promptly nudged back to consciousness when Sylvain quietly pointed out that he had lost all feeling on his arms a while ago.

“Thank you. I’m sorry,” Felix whispered as he dried his face on his shirtsleeve. He immediately clung back to Sylvain as soon as the other boy had coaxed feeling back into his hands. “I’m really sorry.”

But he didn’t _get_ it, because Felix was starting to learn that Sylvain insisted upon burying his self-worth as deep as he could. “Hey, don’t worry. You needed that cry.”

“No, I don’t–” he didn’t really have the words to describe it, the profound pain that he caused, the rift he keeps ripping open between himself and the world “–I don’t mean this. I mean, before. I’m sorry about before. I shouldn’t have– I don’t really think that you–”

“Hey now,” Sylvain said, as soothingly as he could, but it didn’t do anything to make Felix calm down. “It’s alright, I know you were angry. Hell, if anything, I deserved that verbal slap.”

_No, you didn’t, not for this,_ he wanted to shriek at him, but what came out was completely different. “But what about you?”

“What about me?”

What about him, indeed.

Felix had to do _something_. If not the core of the problem, then at least one of the lesser evils. “Why won’t you let yourself mourn?”

“I’m alright. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Felix knew better. He had been there for the well, and he had been there after the snowstorm. He could recognize the quiet hitch of breath, the only tell that Sylvain had yet to grab in an iron fist and lock deep inside with the rest of himself. “You try to play it off, but I know you Syl, I know you.”

Sylvain chuckled, low and amused and the smile was oh so wrong, a practiced mask that slipped on with an alarming ease. “I’m not the one who lost his family. I don’t have a family to lose like this.”

“Don’t say stupid shit like that–” Sylvain gasped in astonishment at the curse and Felix huffed tiredly against him because he needed him to _understand_ “–you always say stupid shit, but don’t say that. We are family. I don’t care what Miklan tells you, I really don’t care about your father. Did we just not promise to stay together, or did that mean nothing to you?”

“He was your brother, he was just my friend,” Sylvain tried weakly. “I don’t have the right to–”

Felix sniffled, fist tightening from where they were buried in the lapels of his vest. “Your pain matters too, Sylvain.”

“When did you grow up?” Sylvain laughed, but his voice cut out with a sob. He hugged him closer even as he shivered and his shaky inhale became ragged weeping, and Felix finally believed that there might yet be hope for them.

**Act Four**

It takes five whole weeks until they get to see Dimitri again.

It’s five weeks of fretting and constant letters that become the bane of the messenger’ existence. Ingrid had stayed over at the Fraldarius Estate for the first two week after the funeral. Sylvain had been reluctant to bring up the issue with his father, had started to become more and more hesitant to bring anything up with his father, in all honesty, but he remembered Ingrid’s lost look and Felix’s tearful eyes and that was enough to fuel his resolve. He wanted to be sick every time he mentioned _strengthening political bonds_ and _ensuring strong allies for House Gautier_. His father had eventually relented with what he swears might have been a pleased smile. Figures that what ended up pleasing the Margrave was for his son to finally become as soulless as him.

The Fraldarius Estate had always been Sylvain’s safe haven. Most of his best memories feature joyous laughter ringing through the gardens and the rhythmic thudding of bare feet running across long hallways. In there, he could finally understand what home meant.

The week after the funeral was anything but.

Felix wouldn’t speak. Rodrigue made attempts to reach out to his son, but every single one of them was met with a hostile glare and a grunted reply. He would barely even look at him and Ingrid, would disappear for hours before a panicking servant eventually found him, hacking away angrily at the pine forest surrounding the Estate. He went through the training swords with an alarming speed. The housekeeper had to order the finances rearranged to accommodate the increased need for new weapons.

All but the rapiers. Those, he avoided like the plague.

Sylvain knew what he was doing, but he didn’t have the strength to stop him.

“We have lost him,” admitted Ingrid. They sat in his guest room, alone in what had become a worrying tradition during the last two days. She was tracing the gold-leaf letters of the book she had picked from the library. She didn’t look too well. The shadows on her face were more pronounced, sharp against the exhausted pallor of her skin.

“He’ll come around–” his jovial tone fell flat in the night “–he always comes around. Felix has always been too sensitive.”

Ingrid shook her head. “No, this is different Syl. He almost took off our heads when we tried to force him to sleep.”

Sylvain grimaced but didn’t argue. He knew it too, deep down, that this was not something that they could fix. That nothing could stop the landslide once the first stone rolled. That time kept moving forward, dragging them along, unrooting them from the scraps of peace they had carved out for themselves. He felt powerless as the mute spectator of their own self-destruction, but he had to focus on what little he could handle. Sylvain had to work with the leftovers he could still cherish. “How have you been holding up?”

She blinked, green eyes clearing for the first time in days. Sylvain could respect how hard Ingrid was trying to be the adult one, how taxing it must be to keep her head above water, but he wished she could share her burdens before they dragged her under.

_Hypocrite_ , rumbled a voice with the familiar poison of his brother. _What a hypocrite._

“I don’t think I have,” she reluctantly accepted with a voice more a whimper than anything else. “I keep expecting to wake up. I thought staying here would make me understand, find some solace, but there’s nothing–”

She flinched away from the hand he tried to offer as a comforting gesture. It made Sylvain’s heart sink.

“There’s just nothing.”

After their _fun_ conversation, Ingrid shut herself away. She tried to be here for Felix, but his continuous avoidance wore her down eventually. She would spend hours gazing at the fire in the heart, unmoving. The staff could sometimes coax her to have a cup of tea, but it was a rare occurrence when she accepted. By the end of the week, she would deflect even Sylvain’s worried inquiries. 

Sylvain felt like he had failed when their stay came to an end and he had naught a thing to show for it.

The summons to the castle came a few weeks later.

The letter, sealed with the blue wax of Fhirdiad royalty, was written in the familiar curled font of Dimitri’s penmanship. He assured them that he was feeling better and that he would very much like to see them again. It was short and sincere, perfectly tailored for conveying politeness and humility.

It did not sound like the Dimitri he knew.

He met up with Felix on the way to the castle. He did not expect a warm welcome from his longtime friend, but the hostility that seemed to be becoming the norm still hurt. It was not that long a trip until they reached Fhirdiad, yet the silence that hung severely between stretched out the hours.

The castle city was lively and active like before the Tragedy. Sylvain saw from the window of the carriage the countless stores open for business after their time of mourning. The streets smelled of baked bread and flowers. People milled around cafés and plazas, enjoying the cool weather. It looked like the Fhirdiad of all, like the place where they painted their childhood.

It was beautiful and heartening to see it recover from loss, but Sylvain knew better.

There was a rot that pervaded the air, a stench of mire barely concealed by the sweet scent of trivial distractions. There was a shadow that slinked in the alleys, that poisoned the fountains. Sylvain looked at Fhirdiad and saw all that he had lost, and he hated the city for it.

Ingrid was already inside with Dimitri when they arrived. They were on the guest wing which was, well, proper for the Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus but not at all expected from Dimitri, their childhood friend, the boy who hated formal meetings and the stuffy conference hall. Their reunions were always held in his rooms or in the gardens with plenty of pastries swiped from the unamused kitchen staff; never in the guest wing suites like they were proper diplomats trying to settle a trading agreement, a miserably formal tea set on a silver tray resting on the table.

Sylvain felt sick.

The smile that Dimitri gave them was beatific and charming. “It’s so good to see you.”

Felix huffed and took a seat. Sylvain saw Ingrid tighten her grip on the table.

“It’s good to see you back on your feet, your Highness,” the title rolled out of his tongue, sweet like honey. He did not enjoy how his instincts kicked in just by listening to Dimitri speak.

The blond didn’t seem to notice his turmoil. Just rolled with it like this was _normal_ , like they always had acted like they did with the other nobles. Felix and Ingrid shared a glance.

“It’s been a trying few weeks but I’m glad to see you well.” Dimitri took the empty seat that completed their lose circle. He sat poised and elegant, as if posing for a portrait. “It’s going to be more difficult to see each other from here on, but I will endeavor to reserve time for you.”

“What an _honor_ ,” drawled Felix. Ingrid stepped on his foot and he jabbed at her ribs, but he did not take his eyes away from Dimitri.

“I apologize that it has come to this,” Dimitri hurried to add. “But what with the campaign coming up–”

“Campaign? What campaign?” The Margrave hadn’t mentioned any campaign. As Sylvain grew older, he was forcing him to get more involved with the skirmishes with Sreng. It made no sense for his father to hold back any information about a significant military decision.

Dimitri looked chagrined, and it was so much like the old Dimitri that he almost had Sylvain fooled. “Ah, I’m not supposed to mention it,” the prince admitted quietly. “The Kingdom is marching on Duscur.”

Duscur. The whole country. This was not a campaign – this was a war. A war that made no sense to Sylvain. The Kingdom was angry. Hell, _he_ was fuming and would be out for blood if the Knights discovered who was the mastermind behind the assassination. He knew that the most popular enemy was the Duscur people, that Faerghus had pointed their fingers to the ones that had the most to win from the Tragedy, but he didn’t think it would be enough to send them up in arms in so little time.

“Serves them right.”

He did not expect it from Ingrid, of all people.

Dimitri looked troubled, but he held his tongue. Sylvain almost wished he had spoken out.

Instead, it was Felix who rose to the challenge, because this new Felix was always mercurial and ready to bite.

“You would support a war with another country based on a rumor?” Felix snorted. “How foolish.”

Ingrid glared, her eyes glacial. “They are savage assassins. They are cold-blooded murderers. How could _you_ not want revenge?”

Felix snarl grew prominent in his face. Sylvain imagined this was what he looked like when he lashed out at his father. “You dare. Really Ingrid, you dare bring that up?”

Ingrid held up four fingers, lowered one. “They murdered the Blaiddyds.”

Dimitri flinched violently. Sylvain felt ashamed for the relief he felt at the reaction.

“They attacked a peaceful diplomatic mission.” She lowered a second finger.

Sylvain looked at the rising agitation on Felix’s scrunched up face. “Ingrid, I don’t think–”

“They murdered the knights,” Ingrid raised her voice to drown out Sylvain. “They murdered them in cold blood.”

She lowered a third finger. They waited near the precipice, awaiting the fall. Ingrid shook in terror, green eyes wide as she stared at something far beyond their conference room. Dimitri stared holes at the table, the corner he was grabbing groaning under the pressure of his grip, a spiderweb of cracks haloing his fingers.

“Say it,” Felix stared at her, his own hand gripping white-knuckled at the tea tray.

She could never take it back. Once out, she could never take it back. He didn’t want her to do this. Hadn’t they lost enough? Weren’t they the only thing they had left?

Felix did not move. Dimitri did not move. It always fell on him.

“Ingrid,” he pleaded.

Ingrid did not look at any of them as she lowered the final finger. “They murdered Glenn,” she damned them to the storm.

The tray went flying and shattered against the wall, sending hot tea splashing in its path. Felix howled, a feral thing, a heartbreaking thing. The youngest of their group stormed out of the room with a desolate expression on his face, but no tears to mark his rage.

There was a crack as the table broke under Dimitri’s hand. He looked at the piece of wood he now held on his hand, a blank examination. Ingrid shivered violently and went to curl up in the seat farthest from them. Sylvain fought the urge to go to her. There was nothing he could say now. There might be nothing he could say to her again.

He chose Dimitri, because he was the one Sylvain understood the less, and he was always looking for a way to make it hurt the most. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Dimitri did not turn to acknowledge him, only twisted the broken piece on his hand. “There’s nothing that can be done because we’re not here.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The shadows of the garden willows crept in from the broad windows, dancing wildly along with the furious wind.

“Nothing that can be done,” hummed Dimitri. “Nothing that can be done for the living that are dead.”

Sylvain saw it then. The blackness of mire, the stain of the rot crawling up Dimitri’s hands. He saw it on Ingrid, dripping like inky tears from her eyes. He felt in burning through his own lungs, hungrily, viciously. He blinked and it was gone.

\---

It was the catalyst to their end. He rarely saw any of them during the following years. An official visit to Fraldarius in which Felix repeatedly avoided him. A couple of days spent in Galatea during which Ingrid barely said more than three words at him, allowing her father to do all the talking. The one he saw the most was Dimitri, but what used to be his friend was cordial at best, smiling that puppet smile with Dedue as his somber shadow.

Miklan was banished and all the weight of being a Gautier was dumped unceremoniously on his shoulders. He couldn’t pause to take a breath without his father looming like a jailer. Future Margrave Sylvain José Gautier had to be the perfect showhorse, the impeccably bred prize of his father’s household. He was not just Sylvain anymore – he was the _Gautier heir;_ he was the best lancer in generations amongst the northern nobility. He waved through social circles with ease, slipped on the mask of mindless, privileged noble and wielded it like a weapon.

Sylvain figured, well, if he can’t be himself, he might as well embrace the persona fully, shouldn’t he? It was so much easier to forget the pain and accept the embrace of the vainglorious life that was served to him on a silver platter. He forced his nature to become the noble brat that he was expected to be, the philandering, asinine, _highborn_ aristocrat that he was groomed to become.

He kept his mask on, and it broke his wounded heart when his friends didn’t call out his bluff when they reunited at Garreg Mach.

They paraded to the Monastery like the golden elite, the perfect offspring of Faerghus. That was what they were good at, after all. What they were _bred_ for. Pretending. Laughing off Felix’s snarled _Boar_ , looking chagrined at Ingrid’s disappointed stare, shrugging off the salacious rumors he starred in, disregarding the whispers of _whore_ that clung to him like his own personal rainstorm.

They all kept up the façade for the whole year, and then for the first year of intercontinental war. There was nothing to be said, no reason to reach out.

And then Dimitri died.

Sylvain wants to say that it moved them to rekindle their snapped bonds. But the harsh truth was that, by that point, they had drifted much too far away from shore to help themselves. He consoled Annette when she dropped by the Estate, wrote to Mercedes during the periods of calm in the war with Sreng, made sure to send out books to Ashe holed down in Gaspard territory.

But for them, he did nothing.

And then the Professor came back, and with her, the light.

**And then some**

**(a snippet of life from a day after the war)**

There’s comfort to be found in the rising steam of a cup of tea. It has a warmth that goes beyond the physical, an inexplicable contentment that mollifies a troubled heart. Dimitri’s glad that this is one of the constants in his life, one of the few things that have not been marred by the sins of his past.

Ingrid sits down with her own cup of mint tea. She had seemed reluctant to brew a whole teapot for each one of them ( _but it’s such a waste, your Majesty. I don’t think I can drink a whole teapot on my own_ ) but the head chef had pushed the brimming porcelain on her without a word. Sylvain downs his bergamot like he’s drinking mead, to which Felix looks at him in disgust and moves his own pine needle away from the man.

The small study is one of the few rooms that survived miraculously unscathed under Cornelia’s reign. Most of the main rooms are wrecked and torn apart. There are some that bear the marks of being _burned_ , for whatever reason. This one was in the guest hall, and seemingly nonimportant enough to escape her wrath. Dimitri hasn’t really been in this one before, and he’s saddened by the cozy atmosphere he’s missed all these years. It only had a modest table and a single, rotting chair. They had been forced to drag chairs from different parts of the castle to have their impromptu tea party, and the different heights that the mismatched seats give them must be hilarious to any outsider. Outside, a light drizzle paints the windows with fog.

“Did the Professor mention where she was going?” It’s Ingrid that drags him out of his thoughts. He breathes in the herbal scent of chamomile and lets out a soft sigh. “To the market with Dedue and Ashe.”

Sylvain chugs his second cup of scalding tea. Felix takes the initiative and moves the teapot away from his reach.

“Is she shopping for insanely expensive tea again?” Sylvain looks forlornly at the teapot now so far away from him. “Or will she buy another bizarre thing– hey, Felix, what was it that she bought for you?”

“A ceremonial sword.”

“Where did she got that from? What would you do with a ceremonial sword? You’re not religious.” Sylvain makes a halfhearted attempt at reclaiming his teapot. Felix slaps his hand away. The redhead looks at him in mock hurt. “Fe, you’re so _mean_ to me.”

“It’s what you deserve.”

“You’re one to talk, Sylvain,” Ingrid buts in. “The Professor gave you a whole painting for your birthday.”

Dimitri chuckles at Sylvain’s look of betrayal. “It was a beautiful landscape, but it was almost as tall as you. I wonder how she carried it all the way from the market.”

“When there’s a will, there’s a way.” Sylvain leaned back on his chair so that he could swing it on two legs. “Hey, your Majestic Majesty, what do you want to do for your birthday party?”

Dimitri frowns and looks down at his cup. “That’s still very far away. Besides, I don’t think I’ll have time for it, to be honest. Reconstruction work is getting held back by the storms.”

“The Professor won’t let you hide behind your work forever,” Ingrid says, with the familiar smugness that presents itself when she’s completely sure of the outcome. “You have to allow us to throw you a birthday party. The last time we did was–”

Ingrid falls quiet. They all suddenly find their cups remarkably interesting.

Dimitri swallows down the taste of bile. He hopes his dread is not as evident as he fears it is. The last birthday party, one last celebration long before that which is not spoken of.

The only thing they still dance around, shying away from it like it burns. Like a wound, like a bleeding bite. Like if they touch it, it will flare out to overpower them.

As if coming out of the memory of halcyon days, it’s Sylvain that grabs the jutting arrow and _pulls_.

“How much longer are we going to keep toeing this line?”

Dimitri meets his eyes, resolute brown against his own resigned blue. He had once backed off from the edge of the unknown, bowed down to adversity and left behind the role of diplomat. But this Sylvain is older, more tired, more broken.

They all looked so tired.

“I mean, if you lot are happy with hiding it under the table, then sure, I’m up for that,” Sylvain said nonchalantly, locking eyes with each of them. “But as the Professor loves to say, _that’s not healthy, Sylvain._ ”

“She really says that a lot,” mutters Felix. “You should listen to her.”

“Yeah, that’s precisely what I’m doing, Fe. So! Anyone wants to talk or should I keep drinking this tea and pretend this never happened?”

Dimitri looks at him, lost. He wants to rebuild the bridges that they tore down, but faced with an endless list of crimes, where does he ever begin? There are years upon years of a neglected relationship sitting like a pitfall between them. Sylvain takes pity on him, or as close to pitying as he ever gets when his eyes are so guarded. “Very well, be like that. Your Majesty, you spend close to five years tearing though the countryside like a man possessed. Want to comment on that?”

He can’t quite hold back the wince at that. Ingrid barks out a curse and kicks Sylvain under the table. He dodges the kick, further incensing her fury. Ingrid makes to stand up, probably to punch him given the way she clenches her fist, but Dimitri places a hand over her forearm, and she hesitates.

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” says Felix in a voice like a challenge.

“No, it’s not,” agrees Dimitri. Felix stares, unwavering. “But with how I treated all of you, I feel like I deserve the bluntness.”

Sylvain frowns. “Hey now, your Majesty –”

“Sylvain, please.” Sylvain stays quiet, but he doesn’t look mollified.

Dimitri takes a deep breath, holds it. Thinks back to rain and a kind hand. Remembers what acceptance feels like, and the frail promise of absolution. If they want to, if it will bring them peace, then he can give this to them, this one small mercy. _Be brave, Dimitri_.

“I was not…well. After the Tragedy.” The porcelain in his hands gives an ominous groan and why is it so difficult, if he’s getting better? What use is him, a king that can’t speak?

Felix looks like he wants to interrupt, and so Ingrid reaches out to take his cup from him. It distracts Felix enough to allow Dimitri time to compose himself. He’s done it once, the talking. He had done this with Byleth, he can do it again. _It’ll get easier with time, it’ll get easier._

He doubts it, but he soldiers on.

“I was not well, and I was not well for a very long time. I remember I thought I did not deserve to find peace. Not after the Tragedy, not in the Academy, least of all during the war. I know you tried that day you came to the castle. I think, even back then, I wanted to accept your help. But when I saw you, I could only see how much I had robbed from you by living. I held onto that for the longest time, my personal punishment for my sins.”

“We didn’t blame you for the Tragedy,” Ingrid says faintly, putting a small hand over his own. “We never did.”

“I know that now. I know that it made no sense to think like that. But at the time, I–”

The porcelain doesn’t shatter by a last second miracle, the quick reflexes that the Professor had instilled into them after tortuous training back at the Academy still sharp after the war, but half its contents spill out and drench the carpeted floor. Dimitri stares in dismay at his hands. This effort will surely kill him.

Sylvain refills his cup with a gentleness that makes his heart twist. Dimitri won’t allow himself to back down, not this time. This endless running is what dug up his ghosts. They deserve to hear it, deserve to weight his darkness and have the chance to part ways on their own terms. He can offer them that and perhaps he’ll find closure in the end.

“I wanted to destroy myself,” he says in a tone that’s almost pleading. “It was never any of you, at any point, that made me lose control the way I did. If anything, I have to thank you. You lost faith, you gave up, but here we are, years later, siting in the castle once again. It means a lot to me that you never left our class, even after I completely lost my head. I know you didn’t do it for me, but I’m still so glad that you’re alive.”

He lets out a shaky exhale and forces himself to meet their eyes. Ingrid and Sylvain look wretched, but Felix wears a complicated expression as he ponders his words. It downs on Dimitri that he has never been this sincere with them, not even as children. It’s unsettling how they claimed to be close when they barely really knew what haunted them. He does remember the solitary mourning they sometimes saw reflected in their eyes back then. His realization brings new aches to bear.

Felix settles on something that’s as wary as it’s painful.

“Western Faerghus,” he chokes out. “What is it to you, now? How do you justify the monster you became?”

Felix would strive to dig as painfully as he could, thinks Dimitri, because he wraps his scars in miles and miles of thorns.

Dimitri shuts his eye close. “I will forever live in shame with my decisions regarding that mission. I can’t give you an answer that will erase the past – it doesn’t exist and will never exist. The only thing I can offer is to become the leader this kingdom deserves. And if they find me wanting, to be at the mercy of their judgment.”

“I hated you. I wanted to hate you,” Felix forces out, like he’s pulling teeth. “I saw you and I thought, is this what my brother died for? Is that what we’ll turn into?”

“I would not blame you if you hate me,” Dimitri concedes meekly. He gets a flat look in return.

“You are not listening. I _wanted_ to despise you. I wanted to blame all the nightmares on you. I wanted to look at you and not be remembered of a past that I tried to bury so many times. But, at the end, when the Professor brought us back together, I had to accept that I just wanted you back, more than anything. I just wanted the Boar Prince gone.” Felix crosses his arms, an embarrassed flush fighting for predominance as the swordsman seems to realize the sincerity in his tone. Dimitri has to blink away the mirage of a younger Felix, open and wearing his heart in his sleeve.

“I’ll strive never to be unworthy of a second chance.”

“That’s fine, Dima.” Dimitri searches for Felix’s gaze and holds it for the full three seconds that the swordsman allows it. He sees the acceptance in his gaze, the warmth that hasn’t been there for years and he feels a weight lift from his shoulders. Sylvain knocks his booted foot against Dimitri’s knee and reaches an arm out towards Felix to pull him into a side hug. He grumbles but allows the contact for a few seconds before he squirms out of his reach.

“For what it’s worth,” Felix says with a shudder. “You did not kill my father. Or my brother. Goddess knows those two fools were intrinsically stubborn. It was _their_ choice, not yours.”

Dimitri feels deviously strong arms tug him into an embrace. He looks down and wonders when did their roles become reversed, that he would be the one in need of comforting. “Grief doesn’t mean forgetting,” Ingrid mumbled, muffled against the fur of his cape. “We just live with it and learn to cope together. We are glad we found you again, Dimitri.”

He frees one arm from her trap and returns an awkward embrace. He hears Sylvain snickering, but when he turns to glare at him, the lancer looks at him innocently.

“As good a moment as any, I suppose,” adds Ingrid as she lets him go. She drums her fingers on the table, a nervous tick that she’s had since they were children. “I’m sorry for how horrible I was after the Tragedy. I wanted to believe that I was justified in my anger, but I only used it as an excuse to behave despicably. I was awful to you.”

“Aw, Ingy.” Sylvain reaches over to grasp her hand. “I mean, thank you, but I think you know that someone else needs to hear that first.”

Ingrid gives them a shaky smile. “I already talked to Dedue. I’m not going to lie and say it was easy, but he’s my friend and he deserved to hear it.”

Felix sighs. “We all were really fucking horrible to each other.”

“Such a charming way of putting it but yes Fe, we were,” Sylvain says with a faint smile. “It’s nice that we’re being honest, for once. Very mature of us.”

“I think a little more honesty would make a great difference in the Kingdom,” musses Ingrid.

Dimitri looks at Sylvain, really looks at him. He sees shadows in the corners of his smile, a storm behind warm eyes. Dimitri’s lived for so long with his ghosts that he learned to recognize the scars of torment on the skin. He used to store his heart away behind politeness and eloquence. Store the battered thing away from anyone who could shatter him for good. But he’s here, with his family, with the siblings that are extending their hands past the storm. He takes them in and makes a choice.

_Be brave, Dimitri._

“You can take off the mask too, Sylvain.” As he expected, the redhead’s eyes sharpen in his direction. He remembers, all of a sudden, how easy it is to underestimate Sylvain’s shrewdness. How dearly they had paid for that mistake when they were younger, when the boy would win game after game with all the talent of a budding tactician.

“Whatever you mean, your Majesty?”

Ah, this infuriating man.

“The titles, the excessive carefreeness. The –” he gestured vaguely in his direction, to which Sylvain raises a questioning eyebrow. “The character you made to make people believe you are nothing more than your looks and your birth. You care so much, Sylvain, and I’ll be forever regretful that I abandoned you without a word. We are trying to bring a new dawn together, so let’s allow us to be ourselves again.”

Sylvain just looks at him for a very long time. In the past, when there was not such an abysmal chasm separating them, it had been so simple to read him. Sylvain used to be clever and earnest, upfront and sincere in a way that was admirable. It makes it so evident, the harm that’s been done, the wounds that have festered as the years went by. It’s a different kind of pain, more mournful and desolate, to realize that they’ve all cut away pieces of themselves to survive this long.

Dimitri fights not to squirm as the seconds tick by. Finally, Sylvain smiles, and it’s a vulnerable, precious thing that brings back the echo of the child he used or be. “Thank you, Dima.”

Sylvain inhales sharply, and Dimitri’s going to be in a lifelong debt with him for being the one leading this conversation. He’s sure he could never do so on his own.

“Well, that was more terrifying than I was expecting. Great job! Let’s take a break.” He makes to grab his wayward cup, but Felix grabs it again and throws it. It shatters on the ground with a shrill sound that makes them jump in surprise.

Dimitri looks down on the cup and prays that the kitchen staff won’t hate him too much this time. Sylvain looks downright scandalized. “Felix, what the hell, that was a perfectly good cup you just destroyed!”

Felix stares him down with a blank glare that he must have picked up from the Professor at some point. “Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting, Fe. I promise,” Sylvain says kindly. Felix sighs but concedes, if still reluctantly. “I just think that’s enough unpacking for today.”

“If we are going to be doing this more often then at least warn me first,” Dimitri grumbles good-naturedly. “Don’t think for a second that I buy that all of our friends, even Byleth, work alcoholic that she is, conveniently chose today to take a stroll in the city.”

Sylvain raises his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged, but blame Ingrid too.”

“You traitor,” laughs Ingrid, and sticks her tongue out to him. The heavy atmosphere dissolves as Sylvain turns back to bemoan his destroyed cup.

_This is a miracle_ , Dimitri thinks as the afternoon rolls by, _this is a dream in waking._

This is more than he deserved, more than he ever hoped. He has been readying himself for the possibility of all of them parting ways once more now that the war is over. Both Dedue and Byleth had encouraged him to reach out to his childhood friends, to face the demons of his past not alone, nevermore. It had seemed an insurmountable goal, even after ending this unbeatable war, such a misguided wish.

“The Lions at the gate, they just got repaired right?”

There’s something wicked in Sylvain’s eyes, some childish glimmer that hasn’t been there for a long, long time. Dimitri feels like he’s ten again, less cracked and freer than he’s ever been. He sees them all younger and more carefree, could almost picture Glenn coming to fetch them for an afternoon ride. He can tell Ingrid’s mind wanders to the same place by the way she shuffles in her seat.

“Indeed. The artisans were very pleased with their job,” Dimitri replies because someone has to. And oh, that’s the bait, that’s what frees Sylvain’s true smile and dazzles them with its sincerity.

“Well, I seem to remember we drove the staff crazy with those Lions” says Sylvain with a suspiciously casual tone. “Of course, most of the servants are new but the ones that were here when we were children–”

“No,” says Felix without an ounce of hesitation, because he always had a different level of ease around Sylvain. Said redhead gives him an exaggerated pout. “Aw, Fe. You don’t even know what I was about to say.”

“You’re a moron, I don’t need to know it. No.”

Sylvain grins, and Ingrid starts to look concerned. Dimitri’s right there with her because he fears knowing where this conversation is heading.

“I think if I told you, you would be the first to follow.” Felix glares at him with far less heat that he usually reserves for the particular kind of annoyance that is Sylvain. He opens his mouth again, possibly to hurl a threat, but Sylvain beats him to it by pushing Felix off of his seat. The swordsman falls down with a yelp and looks up with absolute murder in his eyes.

“Last one to climb the Lion pays for dinner!”

And then he’s bolting down the hallway, his laughter ringing clear through the castle wing. True to his word, Felix is the first to follow after Sylvain with an enraged roar. Ingrid lasts for the whole five seconds it takes her to place her cup back on its plate before she’s dashing after them, screaming that they are _fully grown adults who fought a damn_ war _, how are they still oversized children, Sylvain José Gautier why am I still saddled with you, you cretin._

Dimitri stares at his chamomile mournfully. Alas, there’s nothing that can be done.

He runs past dumbstruck servants, his heavy boots thumping loudly against the ceramic floor. They must think him mad – the King of Lions running like a wild child, not a care in the world. His friends are much farther away. Sylvain dodges maids without slowing down, and he leaves plenty of discarded laundry and unamused women in his wake. Felix sacrifices speed for the chance at tripping him, and Sylvain has to constantly shoot out an arm to keep the faster man from hooking a foot around his ankle. Ingrid keeps berating them as she catches up to them, but the smile is wide and pure in her face. They all are, Dimitri notes, smiling widely like her.

“Do keep up, Dimitri!” Sylvain yells from where he’s leading the charge.

“Eyes on the target, Gautier.”

“Ow, Felix, you disgruntled cat, _stop doing that–”_

“Boys! The knight!”

He sees an opening, swerves the commotion of Sylvain almost bowling over a stunned knight, and pulls up ahead of the group. Felix yells at him, Ingrid shouts that he’s cheating, and Dimitri ignores them in favor of beelining to the gates.

It’s freeing. The wind, the smell of flowers after the rain, the everlasting chill of the Fhirdiad afternoon. He’s surprised by how little it has changed from those elysian days, how vivid the memories still live amongst the gardens. He’s seven again and getting bit by Ingrid’s pegasus while she swears she can prove that they don’t hate all men. He’s nine and he’s dragging Sylvain along to a hiding spot deep in the orchards, determined to finally win hide-and-seek. He’s eleven and they are sleepily trading ghost stories while Felix drools on his shoulder. He’s thirteen, just a few weeks away from that tragic day, and they are chasing each other through the castle like they are doing now that he’s twenty-three.

He reaches the Lion statue and has a second to worry about propriety when Felix slips past him and starts to climb, nimble as if he’s done it a thousand times. Ingrid and Sylvain arrive together, and the redhead reaches out to yank at Felix’s cape, stopping his triumphant climb midway. They hurl insults at each other, and Dimitri scrambles up with Ingrid to perch on the Lion. It’s incredibly uncomfortable up there. They used to be so much smaller than they are now when they pretended to ride on dragons. The stone is cold and slightly damp from the storm, and they have to shuffle around to fit halfway on the Lion, halfway piled on each other. He ends up with Felix’s bony elbow jabbed against his ribs, with Ingrid’s heel digging in his calf, and if Sylvain leans too much to the right, they’ll have the redhead sprawled across their laps.

The knights on duty at the gate stare unashamedly. The captain on turn, an old man Dimitri remembers as part of the original guard, mutters under his breath and shakes his head in resignation.

Dimitri doesn’t care. He’s elated. He’s found something that he thought lost a long time ago. He feels the prickle of tears when Ingrid smiles, warm like the sun. When Sylvain reaches out to ruffle Dimitri’s hair after he makes him blush with an uncomfortable question. When Felix, of all people, throws back his head and laughs, clear and ringing, happy in a way that smooths down the harsh angles of his face. He’s abruptly so glad that they never lost hope, not even when he thought hope a useless torture. He thanks a million times that he chose to grab an open hand under the rain. He feels grateful that he allowed himself to forgive and move on, to become worthy of the people he’s surrounded by, to be a little more like Mercedes, a little more like Dedue, a little more like Byleth and her infinite wisdom.

That’s where the Archbishop and their former classmates find them later on the evening, perched on a stone Lion like they belong there. They look at them in a mixture of fondness and confusion as they bicker and try to subtly push each other from the back of the roaring statue. 

They’re a little bit broken, a little bit scarred. They have lost so much, hurt so much. They still have a lifetime of wounds to heal and mistakes to mend. But here, in this moment, laughing with a childish vigor they had forsaken themselves, basking in the presence of each other and the comfort of their familiarity, Dimitri thinks it’s enough. This is more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I intended to cut it off by Act Four, but Dimitri didn't want to suffer like that so there, have a hopeful ending. 
> 
> Sylvain ended up having more protagonism than I intended. I find it so unfair that his support chain with Dimitri ends at B, so there's that.
> 
> Ingrid was actually engaged to Glenn from birth, but I had to change that because think of the _drama_. They are so unrealistically mature because actual medieval nobility were forced to be adults from such young ages and it makes sense that these kids did not get to experience their full childhood.
> 
> I headcanon that Glenn looks like a Disney princess with his long, dark braid and his porcelain skin. _Could_ and _would_ kill you with his rapier, tho.
> 
> Kindly point out if you find any outrageous mistakes. I've been hunting them down obsessively but proofreading in my second language is not an easy task.


End file.
